The Adventures of Tom Watson
by R.L Hall
Summary: For 11 years Tom Watson believed he was a normal boy. Until a very peculiar letter arrives... The Adventures of Tom Watson follows the life of Muggle-born Tom Watson when he arrives at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. When he befriends two cousins on the journey to Hogwarts, little does he know who they really are or what Hogwarts has in store for them...


Please note although most themes/ideas and some characters are property of JK Rowling this story contains some characters of my own creation.

**Chapter 1**

**The Peculiar Owl**

Tom Watson was a fairly normal boy who led a fairly normal life. He had grown up with his mother and father, in the small town of Whistleton on the outskirts of Surrey, and had attended a small but relatively comfortable school, where he had made a few friends. Tom was exceptionally bright for his age, due to his tendency to read every hour of the day that he could. Reading was Tom's way of escaping to a world of adventure, a world where he could fly across the Earth on the back of a dragon, where he could duel with evil and win, where he could save the damsel in distress. As much as Tom loved his parents and the charming town they lived in, he couldn't help wishing for more.

At the young age of 9, Tom experienced something however, that no normal child would. He had been playing happily at school, with his favourite toy car that was controlled by a remote – something that amused and intrigued Tom greatly, when a large, round boy by the name of Bruce had attempted to seize the remote from him. Bruce being much bigger than Tom, who was rather small and weedy, had succeeded, promoting a large argument that ended with Bruce turning a violent shade of pink, much to the amusement of the other children, but to the bewilderment of the staff, who despite many witnesses decided this was a trick of the light, for Bruce promptly turned back to his usual pale self. Although the teachers promptly removed the event from their minds, and the children over time forgot, Tom could not. He couldn't help feeling both pleased and scared. Although Bruce had been incredibly embarrassed and not bothered Tom ever again, (much to the delight of Tom) he couldn't help feeling that Bruce turning a shocking pink was not a trick of the light. He had hated Bruce so much at that moment, he had felt anger rising dangerously in his chest, he had willed for something, anything to happen to his arch nemesis. And it did. Tom was sure that at the exact moment his anger reached boiling point, Bruce had turned a violent pink, a fact that both amused Tom, but also worried him. He didn't dare tell his parents that he thought he had turned a boy in his class pink, let alone that he thought he might have attained some sort of magical power, nor it seemed did the teachers feel it necessary to inform his parents of the event. Bruce however, was careful not to mess with Tom again.

A year later however, when the event seemed much less scary than it had back then, a similar event occurred in which Tom's greedy cousin Percy's packet of sweets, had shot violently out of his hand and down a nearby drain when he had refused to share with Tom. An argument had followed this, in which his parents told Percy it was entirely his fault he had dropped the sweets down the drain and that he would not be receiving another packet, much to Percy's dismay, but Tom's delight. Once again Tom felt intrigued but yet scared by the incident. The idea of magical powers had always appealed to Tom. It seemed like something from one of his books. But those books were only fiction. Normal people did not have magical abilities. But then again, normal people did not obtain the power to turn people pink, or make objects zoom out of the hands of people they were angry with. No it was stupid. Tom didn't, couldn't have 'magical powers'. But what if he did. What if he accidentally did something dangerous with these powers? Something out of his control? Still, he thought it best not to tell his parents of these events; they wouldn't believe him anyway. Only Tom thought it worth pondering about these events, wondering himself whether he might be different. It was not until a year later however, that his question was answered.

"Tom sweety, come on get up." Tom's mother was sitting on the edge of Tom's bed leaning over him, a wide smile across her thin pale face. Tom rather thought his mother had the appearance of an angel, as the light from the door illuminated her thin frame. She had big blue almond shaped eyes, which were piercing Tom with a happy yet stern gaze, a small, thin nose and long copper brown hair, that swept the bedcovers, over which she was leaning. Tom rubbed his eyes sleepily and rolled over to look at his clock.

"But mum it's only half past eight, I thought we weren't leaving til' nine 'o' clock?" he asked sleepily.

"Yes, but we know how long it will take you to get ready honey," she raised her eyebrows accusatorily. "Your hair seems to take forever to comb." She ruffled his messy, copper brown hair, the colour of which he had inherited from his mother along with her large, blue eyes, and lifting herself from the bed, walked over to the doorframe turning gracefully when she reached it, her long hair whipping through the air.

"Up" she said sternly, before she smiled jokingly and swept from the room.

The following day was most uneventful, except for one peculiar thing that happened on the way to the car that morning. His mother had sat him in the back seat and handed him a comb, instructing him to keep combing his hair, an event which had already taken up most of the morning, much to both Tom and his mother's dislike. No matter how much it was combed, his hair did not seem to want to go straight. He was gazing absent-mindedly out of the window when he was sure he saw, perched upon the television ariel of a house across the street, an owl. In his many book reading sessions Tom had stumbled across owls, creatures that greatly fascinated Tom due to their wise nature. But Tom was pretty sure however, that wise barn owls could not normally be found in broad daylight on the rooftops of people's houses. What's more, it appeared to have what looked like a envelope held in its small, sharp beak. It was also, fixing Tom with an unblinking stare as the car pulled out of the drive and made its way down the street. He thought he had perhaps mistaken the owl for another bird he might not have read about. But he was pretty sure that was an owl. Or maybe it was a new roof decoration. Yes, it looked like something Mrs Biggins would come up with, and therefore, he decided to forget about the peculiar owl for the rest of the day.

It was not until later that evening when he returned home from his rather boring trip to Aunt Margaret's, which had involved a long talk about how Percy was going to be attending a highly prestigious school due to his 'outstanding' performance at St Austell's Primary, when Tom was sitting peacefully reading in his room that his memory was sparked. Tom reflected briefly on his aunt's endless ramble about his brilliant new school, which Tom considered, by the sounds of the various features of the school ("a five star cuisine just for my Perce!") cost an arm and a leg. Tom sighed. Aunt Margaret might be rolling in it, but Tom's parents certainly couldn't afford to send him to a highly prestigious school, and at present Tom didn't have a secondary school to attend, much to the worry of his parents.

Night was drawing ever nearer, and unable to read the words upon the page, Tom glanced up at the window to see the sun setting behind the rooftops of the houses across the street. It was then that he noticed an unusual silhouette against the deep crimson sky. He got up to take a closer look, pulled back the net curtain and saw a small brown barn owl with an envelope firmly in its beak, staring back at him. Tom stood there staring transfixed at the small owl and it to gazed back at him through the ever thickening darkness. He was not sure how long he stood there, but only when the darkness lay so thick over the street that Tom could barely see the small shape, did Tom decide he had read enough for that evening. Although he lay gazing at the ceiling of his room for what seemed like forever, still picturing clearly the small brown owl, Tom's dreams of dragons and castles were not once disturbed by the image of a small brown owl swooping through the darkness to deliver a letter to the doorstep of number seven, Willow Lane.

Tom got up next morning of his own accord, when his clock told him it was half past nine. All thoughts of the previous day and of the strange owl had gone from his mind as he pulled back the curtains and allowed the light to flood his room. Nothing unusual met his eyes as he gazed out over the familiar rooftops, from behind which a bright morning sun was emerging. Tom changed into a plain t-shirt and trousers and went down for breakfast.

When he entered the kitchen, he found his mother humming along to a song on the radio, cooking bacon and eggs, the smell of which made Tom's stomach grumble, and his father sitting at the small round dining table, leaning casually back on the chair, one leg laying across the other, immersed in a large newspaper of which the main headline read 'Summer drought on its way?' Tom's mum looked around as he traipsed across the kitchen floor yawning.

"Morning honey!" his mum beamed down at him, then she frowned slightly as Tom yawned loudly again. "You still look very tired, maybe you should go back to bed."

"I'm fine" said Tom smiling sleepily back at his mother. "Honestly."

She smiled at him again and turned her attention back to the eggs on the stove. By now Tom's father had lowered his newspaper and was also, smiling at his son.

"Morning Tom!" he said joyfully, "You're up rather early!" and he winked playfully at him. It was well known that Tom was not usually an early bird.

Although Tom had inherited his deep blue eyes and copper brown locks from his mother, he had clearly not inherited her long sweeping hair, that fell perfectly straight over her shoulders. His father, like him, had messy hair that fell in loose curls all over his head. His father's hair however, was a much darker ebony colour, and he wore square rimmed glasses over his small, brown eyes. He had a bright twinkling smile that lit up his face, and gave him a much younger appearance. Tom had inherited as his mother called it "his father's cheeky grin", and he was frequently told that because of this he looked very much like his father.

"I went to bed quite early" replied Tom as he walked forwards to give his father a hug.

"I thought it was quiet" smiled his father, the infamous cheeky grin spreading across his face. He lent down and kissed his son on the head.

"Good dreams?"

"Oh yes" said Tom happily. He recalled perfectly last night's dream, in which he had been sent by the King to slay an evil dragon, in return for mountains of gold. However, he had struck up an unlikely friendship with the dragon, and they had flown off into the sunset and then… suddenly Tom remembered. The deep crimson sunset, the small silhouette. He stood up abruptly, and for a moment he was considering running up to his room to see if the owl was still there. But then he remembered he had not noticed anything unusual that morning. His father who was still laughing heartily at the part of the story which involved biting the Kings head off (Tom recalled that the King looked rather a lot like their snooty next door neighbour, Mr Pike who had a dislike for children, as much as for the people who brought them into the world) took a little while to realise Tom had stopped talking and was now standing stock still, gazing fixedly into space.

"Are you quite alright Tom?" said Tom's dad rather anxiously. Tom was brought back to his senses when he realised his mother was also staring at him with a rather worried look upon her face.

"I'm fine" replied Tom managing a faint smile. He couldn't help thinking about that owl. Had it all just been a dream?

"Here have some breakfast" his mother came bustling across the room with two plates of bacon and eggs. "I expect you're hungry."

"Thanks honey" said Tom's dad as she stooped down to put his plate upon the table. She kissed him on the cheek as she did so, and Tom made gagging gestures with his fingers. His mother now seemed to be satisfied he was back to his usual cheeky self.

"You just eat your breakfast" she said jokingly as she pointed warningly at him. She picked up her plate from the stove. "Or the same might happen to you", and grinning widely she hurried over to him and kissed him on the cheek.

"MUM!" cried Tom, attempting to rub off the already implanted kiss. Tom's dad laughed through his mouthful of bacon and eggs and Tom scowled at him. He thought of going on hunger strike. But the smell from the plate beneath him was rather tempting…

When Tom's dad had finished his plate he rose from the table and walked towards the hallway.

"Well, see you later!"

"Where are you going?" said Tom quite alarmed at his father's sudden movement. He was pretty sure his father didn't usually go to work on a Sunday morning.

"Oh I'm just popping to the paper shop" replied Tom's dad calmly, as he opened the door and strode into the hallway. He emerged seconds later, pulling a jacket on and smiling at the look of alarm still carved on Tom's face.

"Not usually up this early are you?" and he winked at Tom as he turned and strode once more through the door.

"See you soon!" he cried and they heard the front door creak open.

"Bye honey."

Then close.

"Err… honey I wasn't aware we got post on Sundays"

Tom looked up at his mother. She was frowning slightly.

"We don't, why?"

"Well… we've got post…and it's addressed to…"

"Yes?"

"To…Tom…"

Tom's mother turned to look at him. She looked incredibly shocked. But he was sure she didn't look half as shocked as him. He had never had post in his life, save for birthday and Christmas cards. But It was certainly not Christmas, nor was it his birthday.

"Tom?" She replied, tearing her eyes from Tom to look at the door through which Tom's dad had just left.

"Yes" said his father entering the room with a small, yellowish envelope in his left hand and a puzzled look on his face. "Look, to Mr T Watson, seven, Willow Lane, Whistleton, Surrey. There is no mistake who that's addressed to…my name's James and you're…well not a man." Tom laughed timidly but his mother did not. She looked slightly nervously at the letter.

She stood up, her mug of coffee still clutched in her right hand, walked over to Tom's father and with her left hand reached out to take the letter from him. She gazed at it apparently confused.

"I don't think we've got any overdue books…" she seemed to be trying to think of a logical answer as to who would have sent the letter. "Hmm but then it would have been sent to me… Oh! It could be the book club! But then why deliver it by hand… unless he's won a prize…" She seemed to be talking more to herself than anybody. "I mean it must be important because it would have had to have been delivered by hand…" She began pacing the kitchen, mumbling to herself.

Tom still couldn't believe it. Why would someone write a letter to him? And why would they deliver it by hand… Then suddenly it hit Tom, and a weight seemed to plunge down his stomach that had nothing to do with the hearty breakfast he had just consumed. He remembered, yet again, the owl… hadn't it had a letter in its beak! No, owls don't carry letters in their beaks…they don't carry letters at all! But then again it would be a strange coincidence…

"Hey what's that on the back!" cried Tom suddenly. He was peering at a gap in his mother's fingers where there seemed to be a small purple crest imprinted on the letter. His mother turned the letter over in her hands, revealing to Tom for the first time the writing on the front.

_Mr T Watson_

_7 Willow Lane_

_Whistleton_

_SURREY_

He gazed at the letter transfixed.

"Hogwarts…" read his mother. "What on earth is Hogwarts?" Tom looked up to see his mother looking in bewilderment at the back of the letter, his father with a similar expression, peering over her shoulder at the envelope. "Have you heard of this 'Hogwarts'?" said Tom's mother turning to look at her husband.

"No I can't say I have" he said, still peering at the envelope looking confused. "But whoever it is has got an interesting name…" Tom who hadn't really paid much attention to the name, now found himself contemplating why anybody or any place would want to call themselves 'Hog warts' and why they would be writing to him. His mother seemed to think so to.

"Who calls themselves hog warts" she said disapprovingly. "Do you know who this 'Hogwarts' is?" she said turning to fix Tom with one of her piercing stares. "It's not some joke shop or something you've ordered from?" His father turned to look at him to, and Tom felt rather like he was being surveyed.

"Honestly, I've never heard of it", Tom glanced nervously at his parents. "I swear." His mother surveyed him for a moment more, a look of mistrust upon her thin face, before she turned again to her husband.

"What do you think?" He seemed to look thoughtfully at his son for a few seconds before answering.

"I think we should open it and see what this 'Hogwarts' is."

Tom in all his wonder, had completely forgotten that the letter was in fact addressed to him, and that he had the right to open it. Curiosity and excitement overwhelmed him.

"Yes please mum I really want to open it!" Tom looked pleadingly at this mother, who was still gazing suspiciously at the envelope. "It is addressed to me."

She tore her gaze from the envelope and looked at her husband.

"Oh come on, it's not gunna explode or anything is it?" He smiled reassuringly at her, and slowly she turned her gaze to Tom. Though she still looked slightly apprehensive, she held out the letter for him to take.

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